The Devil Served Desire (7 page)

"Again? She was just here on Thursday to change her wedding theme from Elvis to Cher," Candace said. "She wanted peacock feathers in the chocolate centerpieces, for God's sake."

Monica Thurgood had changed her mind seventeen times about her wedding decor, ordering all new desserts, dresses and decorations each time. Last month, she'd had a "vision" of a Cinderella wedding, complete with chocolate mice. This past week, she'd talked about an Elvis-themed wedding, with the bridesmaids wearing blue suede shoes and polyester suits.

"Well, she's got a new idea now. She called me first thing this morning to warn us she'd be stopping by. Now, don't laugh when she tells you," Rebecca warned, biting her lip and suppressing a grin. "She's talking... trains."

"Trains?"

Rebecca nodded. "She said her fiancé has this thing for anything railroad. He likes pretending he's the engineer and she's the wayward caboose, and they—"

"Don't!" Candace put up a palm. "I just ate breakfast.''

"Have you met her groom?" Maria asked. "He's got the coordination of a cow. All I can see him doing is derailing her."

The bell over the front of the door jangled, interrupting them. Monica Thurgood waltzed in, complete with her Chihuahua child.

"Come along, Aphrodite," she said to the little dog, tugging on a Swarovski crystal-embedded leash. "We need to talk about Mommy's wedding."

Across the room, Candace's three-legged dog Trifecta barely lifted his head in acknowledgment of the diminutive canine companion.

"Monica, how nice to see you again," Rebecca said.

Monica laid her Coach purse on the counter and ran a hand down the front of her cream Chanel suit. "I know it's only been four days since I was here, but I had an absolutely brilliant idea when I was at the spa this morning, getting a pedicure for myself and Aphrodite."

"Another idea?" Maria said. "So soon?"

"Oh, you know me. An idea a minute." Monica let out a giggle. "My head is positively spinning with ideas for the ceremony and reception."

"You know we only have two months until the big day," Rebecca said. "Changing things at this point will—"

"Cost me more. I know. But Daddy said whatever makes me happy is worth any price." Monica picked up Aphrodite." And Daddy loves his little girl, doesn't he, pumpkin?" She cuddled the dog to her face.

"So we aren't going with the Cher theme anymore?"

"Turns out Daddy is allergic to peacocks. The centerpieces would have given him hives." Monica shook her head, lips pursed. "Poor Daddy. He's never even been to a zoo, can you believe it?"

"That is a ... a hardship."

"Anyway, I was thinking it might be more fun to have a train theme, because my Lester is so into locomotives."

"Trains, huh?" Candace managed. "Is he a collector?"

Monica twiddled her fingers at her lips, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "More an ... enthusiast, you could say."

"Choo, choo," Maria whispered into Candace's ear, covering the joke with a slight cough. Candace gave her an elbow jab.

"We can do trains," Rebecca said. "Let's go into the office and jot down a few ideas." She gestured to Monica, who followed along, Aphrodite taking quick dainty steps beside her.

Candace grabbed Maria's arm before they headed into the office. "You can't leave me hanging. Details. I need details."

"Nope. Not even under pasta torture." Maria grabbed the office door handle. "Besides, we need to get in here and help, so Lester can get cozy with Thomas the Tank Engine at his wedding."

"You are a bad influence on me," Candace said, laughing.

Maria gave her a quick one-armed hug. "Hey, we all have our missions in life."

Vinny's Osso-Buco-of-Tearful-Contrition

2 tablespoons of flour

Salt and pepper

4 veal shanks, supremely high quality

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 onion, minced (be careful not to cry as you chop)

1 celery stalk, minced

1 leek, minced

1/2 carrot, minced

2 cloves garlic, minced

1-1/4 cups white wine (pick an excellent vintage for apologizing)

1-1/4 cups chicken or veal stock

2 bay leaves

Zest of 1 lemon

1 14-ounce can chopped tomatoes

Salt and pepper

Gremolata:

2 teaspoons minced fresh parsley

Zest of 1 lemon

1 clove garlic, minced

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Season the flour with salt and pepper, then lightly dredge the veal. Shake off any excess and make sure everything is perfectly coated.

Put an ovenproof casserole on the stove. Turn on the burner.
Do not look at the flame!
This is no time for distractions. Heat the oil, then add the veal and the onion. Brown the veal on both sides. Keep your mind and eyes on your task; don't get sidetracked. Remember, this is your chance to make up for that other ... ah, incident. Remove the veal and set on a towel to drain.

Add the other vegetables, stir and cook until softened. Then add remaining ingredients, seasoning to taste. Try not to cry over the pan, thinking about how you almost lost your job and how your rent is due and the air conditioner is broken ... Pull yourself together now.

Focus.
Focus
.

Return the veal to the pan. Cover and cook everything for two hours or until veal is tender enough to be pierced with a fork, just like your sorry heart.

In a small bowl, combine the gremolata ingredients. Sprinkle on top of the osso buco. Serve immediately—

Before you do anything else stupid.

Vita was a madhouse. If Dante didn't own the place, he wouldn't believe it was the same restaurant as last week. Reservations were being called in faster than Franco could answer the phone, diners were lining up outside the door, waiting for any available table.

The review had worked a miracle. Perhaps he should nominate George Whitman for sainthood.

"Ah, your papa would be so proud," Franco said, coming alongside Dante at the reservation desk. "All his life, he wanted this."

Dante nodded. "Too bad it never became a hit while he was around."

Franco waved a hand. "He's around. He's in the flowers, the air, the smells from the kitchen. Your papa, always has been a part of this place."

Dante's gaze traveled over the dark wood paneling, the cranberry upholstery and the delicate wall sconces. His father had chosen every element in Vita. When Dante had inherited the place, he'd talked about changing this, lightening up that. But it had all been talk. He hadn't done much more than update the menu and add a few plants to the foyer. From the ceiling to the diamond-patterned carpet, Vita was still his father's vision. "You're right, Franco."

The maître d' nodded. "Of course I am." Franco picked up the grease pencil, his hand hovering over the laminated seating chart. "What about the other beautiful addition to Vita?"

"What other addition?"

"The vixen who created a miracle in the dining room. And stole your heart."

"She didn't steal my heart. She's a pretty girl, and yes, she helped me smooth over things with Whitman, but—"

"But nothing. Don't you lie to Franco. I know love when I see it."

"You are getting old. You need glasses."

"I need nothing but a tux for a wedding." He winked and arched a hinting brow at Dante. "And you,
mio amico
, need a wife. You work too hard, worry too much, live too little."

Franco should have been a champion dart player. He'd hit that particular bull's-eye with unerring accuracy. Dante had kept Vita the same as it had been when his father owned it, but that also meant living the life his father had. All-consuming, workaholic. No time, no energy, no room in his day planner for a date, never mind a wife.

"You
really
need to meet Maria's mother. You two could create your own marriage mafia."

Franco's eyes widened. He pressed a hand to his heart. "
Mio Dio!
I thought you were scared to speak that word."

"What word? 'Mafia'? Oh, come on. It's not the twenties."

Franco scoffed. "You think I worry Jimmy Hoffa is going to come through our door? No, not that word. The 'marriage' word."

"What's wrong with it?"

"My mamma, God rest her soul, she had the sight. She tell me, 'Franco, those who speak of marriage, they want it. They say the word and it happens. Just like that.' " He snapped his fingers and a chill ran down Dante's spine. "Say it and before you know it you are a Mister."

"I'm already a Mister," he told Franco, hedging at a real answer. Dante did want to get married someday. Not to replicate the nightmare marriage his parents had had, but to find the traditional life that had always eluded him. A wife, a couple kids, a home.

For now, though, that dream would have to stay on a shelf. Vita was his family.

"You need to find your beautiful butterfly and introduce her to your flower," Franco said. He did a little dance with his shoulders to punctuate the sentence.

"Franco!"

"You think I got to be an old man by living the life of a monk? I know about
amore
"—he winked—"if you know what Franco means."

"There are people waiting to be seated."

Franco sighed. "And each day, your heart, she grows more lonely. Someday she shrivel up like a rotten tomato. Die in a dark place. Alone."

"I have to get back to the kitchen. Vinny shouldn't be left unattended."

"When you end up pushing your own wheelchair around, don't come crying to Franco."

"Gee, thanks for the pretty picture of my future." Dante left and headed into the kitchen.

Dante would never admit Franco was right. Doing so would open up an entire can of matchmaking worms. If he knew Franco, the man would be camped out on Maria's doorstep, chatting up Dante's assets until she caved and agreed to date him. In another life, Franco would have made a hell of a hostage negotiator.

Today, he had the restaurant to worry about. All this good fortune could be gone tomorrow. Another place in town could get a better review, take the limelight off Vita and leave him struggling once again. Too many people depended on Dante for him to direct his attention anywhere but within these two thousand square feet.

"I didn't touch the oven once," Vinny said when Dante entered the kitchen. Behind him, the swinging door slapped softly back and forth, slowly coming to a stop. "I didn't even look at the flames. I swear."

"Good. Did you get the veal braised?"

"As even as Pamela Anderson's tan."

"Risotto started?"

"Simmering like an August day." Vinny gestured toward the plates lined up along the stainless steel counter. "And I've got ten orders up, ready to go."

"Great." Dante slipped on his chef hat and tied his apron around his waist. "I'm counting on you, Vinny. Don't screw up."

"I won't." He toed at the floor. "I just want to say—" and he started to sniffle.

"Don't start, Vinny. Come on, we've got work to do." Dante gave him a light jab in the shoulder. "Buck up."

"I gotta say it, Boss. Please." More sniffles.

Vinny had an emotion control problem. He felt everything in extremes. He didn't laugh, he guffawed. He didn't get angry, he blew up. And he didn't sympathize, he broke down into sobbing. "Go ahead, but don't get yourself all worked up."

The sous chef nodded and swallowed hard. "Thanks for-for-for—" and he dissolved into tears, draping his head and arms across Dante's shoulders.

Dante patted at the younger man's back. "Vin, you're gonna make the rice salty. Don't cry."

"You're the only one who would give me a job," he mumbled through the tears, "and after all I did, you let me keep my job, and my kid needs shoes and now, she's gonna have them." And then he was off again, tears racing down his face.

"Vin. Vin.
Vin!
" Dante waited until Vinny had lifted his head and met his gaze. "It's all right. I forgave the fire thing—well, let's say I got over it. You concentrate on cooking. You're a good chef; stick with that."

"Yeah, Boss. I will." Vinny swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "You ever need anything, though, a car, a new stereo, a TV, you come to the Vin-man."

"You promised me," Dante said, pointing at Vinny's chest "you'd give up that life when you came to work for me."

"I did! I got friends who have friends, you know. And I'll take care of you, the way you took care of me."

"Then stir the risotto before it sticks to the pan."

The kitchen door swung open and Rochelle, his head waitress, bustled in, an empty tray balanced in her hand. "Shit it's busy out there. My ass is burning." She shoved her hip against a counter and heaved a deep breath, running a hand over her tight nearly shaved black hair.

"Hey, Rochelle," Vinny asked from his position by the risotto. "How's that TV working that my cousin got you?"

"The remote eats batteries like they're candy, but it's good. My ma says she never knew the people on
General Hospital
came in colors other than green."

"Good. You need a stereo, you come to me. I'll—" He cast a quick glance at Dante. "I'll, ah, get my cousin to hook you up."

"Yeah, sure, Vin." Rochelle stretched a kink out of her back, then reached for the plates of food and began covering them with silver warming covers. "What the hell happened to this place? I like busy, but this is ridiculous."

"Enjoy it while it lasts," Dante said. "George Whitman could find another 'delight' tomorrow."

"Well, he better not do it too soon. Ma's meds went up again. Damn doctors prescribe things like money grows on the freaking moon. They must think I got some unlimited trust fund." She shoved herself upright again and started loading the covered plates onto her tray. "Honey, I ain't even got trust for my man, never mind no fund."

With the risotto back under control, Vinny discreetly headed off to the storage closet to replenish some of the spices. Dante could hear him still sniffling a little in the back room.